


stand tall

by waveridden



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08, The Snackrifice, Unlimited Tacos (Blaseball Team), lots of cameos from Tacos and other shelled players, not compliant with the PODS thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveridden/pseuds/waveridden
Summary: “Hypothetically-” she points at the TV with her free hand. “What if a whole team were in shells?”“Nine batters,” Francisca answers. “That’s easier.”“Or,” Wyatt says. “Or five pitchers.”
Relationships: Patel Beyonce & Alejandro Leaf & Wyatt Pothos & Francisca Sasquatch & Sexton Wheerer
Comments: 45
Kudos: 84





	stand tall

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer #1: I am a Sunbeams fan. I took some liberties with Tacos lore and characterization. I don't think I did anything too egregious, but I wanted to say so up top just in case.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer #2: I started this last week. I did not predict the PODS. This does not include PODS. This goes from Jess/Nagomi being shelled in S6 through Jess/York being shelled in S8.
> 
> Miscellaneous tidbits: Alejandro is a pitcher plant, Francisca is a sasquatch, and Sexton is a centaur from an alternate universe. Y'know, just Blaseball stuff. And thank you to Tam for not laughing when I said "Snackri-fic" out loud, and for all the other support too.
> 
> Content warnings: isolation, memory loss, general Blaseball-y horror

1.

  
  


They’re all crowded around the TV, watching the footage, when Francisca finally says, “This is horrible.”

A murmur of agreement goes around the circle. Wyatt doesn’t look away from the TV. The live feed of Jessica Telephone — or, really, of the giant peanut shell that she’s trapped in — hasn’t moved in hours. She knows it won’t, but she doesn’t want to miss it if something happens.

“What do you think is going to happen next?” Sexton says.

Wyatt shudders on reflex. “God, you think it’s going to get worse?”

“I think we have to be ready for it to get worse.”

Wyatt never met Jessica or Nagomi — at least, she doesn’t think she did. She played against them in games, sure, but that’s different from knowing them. And she can’t remember clearly what it was like before she was Wyatt Pothos, but Jess and Nagomi are stand-out people. She thinks she’d remember them.

This started out as a full-team thing, all of them huddled around the TV together. But then NaN left, and Rat went after them, and Vito wandered off. And next thing Wyatt knew it was just the pitchers left. Watching.

“How could it get worse?” Francisca says. There’s a deep wrinkle across her forehead, something that Wyatt has only seen a couple times before. She’s worried. Wyatt can relate.

“More people,” Patel answers. They’re staring pensively at the TV. Wyatt doesn’t want to look at them too long; it always seems like Patel knows something she doesn’t, and right now she doesn’t want to think about what that is. “That has to be it.”

“It won’t let us just idolize the right players?”

“You know the Shelled One. It won’t be happy.”

Alejandro makes an unhappy noise. Wyatt reaches out and squeezes her knee, more automatic than conscious thought. “So how do we get ready?”

“It’s going to ruin teams,” Sexton says. “Think about it. We all know who gets idolized.”

Wyatt knows. Jess and Nagomi are heavy hitters, but there are plenty of good players. There’s Axel. There’s Loser, on the Crabs. Hell, there’s that kid on the Fridays; just because he’s a kid doesn’t mean he’s going to be safe forever. Every team has a couple of really good players that are at risk.

Or, well, most teams. The Tacos have popular players, sure, and she doesn’t want to think too long about how close NaN was to that red line. But nobody wants to keep bad players as their idols.

“Maybe it’ll be good for next season,” Francisca starts, but Wyatt cuts her a sharp look, and she deflates. “No, I can’t say that. The competition is less important than… that.”

Wyatt looks back at the TV. Jessica Telephone is still in a giant peanut shell.

“Not much we can do,” Sexton mutters. “I mean, none of us are popular enough.”

“Not alone,” Alejandro says. Wyatt looks at her, and one of her tendrils winds around Wyatt’s wrist. It’s firm, grounding. Comforting.

Wyatt swallows. “Not alone,” she says. There’s an idea in the back of her head, something that seems too dangerous to say out loud. But if anyone would let her… “I have a thought exercise.”

Patel glances at her. “Yeah?”

“Hypothetically-” she points at the TV with her free hand. “Jess can’t play.”

“Right.”

“But the rest of the team can.”

“And they’ll have to.”

“What if a whole team were in shells?”

It feels like everyone takes a breath at the same time. Wyatt doesn’t want to look at any of them, but she ends up looking at Alejandro. “Allie?”

“You are saying something dangerous,” Alejandro says. Wyatt thinks she’s smiling. “I like that.”

“It would be hard to do,” Sexton points out. “Let’s say that the whole top twenty get shelled next time. Even if we do have the right top three, it’s really hard to get all fourteen players above that line.”

“Nine batters,” Francisca answers. “That’s easier.”

“Or,” Wyatt says. Her heart is pounding. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. All of them are dancing around the same conclusion, and it was her idea. It’s only fair that she brings it home. “Or five pitchers.”

This time, she looks at Patel. They look back. “What?”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What would happen?”

“I don’t know,” Patel says. “Why would you think I would know?”

“You know things sometimes.”

“I know that you’re playing with fire, Pothos.”

“I’m playing with peanuts, Beyonce.”

They finally crack a smile. “It would be fun to find out,” they say musingly. “Right?”

“We don’t know what the idol board will be,” Francisca warns. “Maybe the line will be at three again. Or at five. Or we won’t know.”

“We can talk about it,” Sexton says diplomatically. But he casts a glance back at the TV. The feed has changed to Baltimore, but you almost wouldn’t know it from the shot. It’s Nagomi’s shell, and it’s not moving either. “But-”

“But,” Francisca agrees. Patel and Alejandro both nod.

“We’ll wait for the line,” Wyatt says. “And then we’ll tell the rest of the team.”

It’s the kind of thing it feels like they should talk about more. But Wyatt doesn’t exactly want to talk about it. They’re the Tacos. Nobody else is going to do this kind of thing; they’re all scared. Wyatt’s not scared, exactly, but she’s also already had one event completely overwrite her identity. After that, spending a little while in a small space feels like less of a big deal.

  
  


#

  
  


Election results come out. The red line comes back at #10.

Wyatt says, “I think we need a team meeting.”

It’s a mess, because — look, it was always going to be a mess. Wyatt was team captain on her blasketball team for a little while, and they couldn’t hardly decide what pizza place they’d order lunch from without it being a mess. This is a lot bigger and messier than that.

But it’s also a mess because, horrifyingly, NaN starts crying halfway through.

Wyatt only wavers for a second. She glances at Quitter, hoping for moral support, but Quitter is glaring off into the distance. So she swallows and finishes explaining and says, “Any questions?”

“Yeah, I have a question,” Dovenpart says. “What the hell are you thinking?”

Wyatt huffs in annoyance. “Someone’s going to get shelled no matter what.”

“Right, so why do you think it has to be you?”

“We know that shelled players can’t bat,” Sexton points out. “It stands to reason that shelled players can’t pitch either.”

“So you think breaking the game is a good idea?”

“The game broke the second an ump burned a player alive,” Patel answers, more sharply than Wyatt expected. She kind of likes it. “Come on, we’re the Tacos. Why wouldn’t we?”

“You can’t get out,” Quitter says. They’re still not looking over at the pitchers. “Like, as far as we know, this is permanent. Have you thought about that?”

Wyatt has thought about it a lot. Wyatt has thought about it every day. Wyatt has already had a nightmare or two about it, entering the rotation alongside incinerations and eclipses and watching her teammates choke on peanuts.

Alejandro stands up. Everyone turns to her. “We do not have another choice,” she says, and that’s when the shouting starts in earnest.

NaN slips out after about five minutes. Wyatt cuts a glance over at Quitter, who’s currently mid-shouting match with Sexton, and follows them out.

They look up when they see her. “Pothos,” they say, sounding sad. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t-” they wave a hand. “Any of it.”

Wyatt hasn’t talked to NaN a lot about the whole… Wyatt Mason-ing thing. But she’s not stupid. She knows they feel guilty. She also knows that NaN isn’t exactly stable these days, metaphysically speaking. The Unslam hurt them most of all.

“Question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“How would you feel if I were the one flicking in and out of existence, but you got to be Wanda Mason and live a normal life other than that?”

NaN frowns instinctively. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be destabilized. I’d rather-” their mouth opens into an O. “That’s what this is.”

“Sort of.” Wyatt glances away from them. “Look, I’m angry. All of us are upset, sure, but I’m _angry._ The umps have been killing us, the peanuts have been killing us and now they’re trapping us, this idol thing was a trap the whole time. Doesn’t that make you angry?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

She shakes her head. Typical NaN. “I want to burn everything down,” she says. It’s sacrilege. It’s against her contract. It is the most liberating thing she has ever said aloud. “And I can’t do it by myself. We can’t even do it as a team. But this right here — we have a way to break the system. Not completely, not irreparably, but we have a chance to make it think about us as people and not just players. And I like that.”

“Because you’re angry?”

“Because it gives me something to do about being angry.”

NaN looks up at her. There are still something like tears on their face, but they say, “We’re not going to be able to talk you out of it, are we?”

“Fran already called a couple people on the Dale,” she admits. “It’s kind of an uphill battle, but we’re figuring it out. We’re going to do this without the team’s blessing.”

“But?”

Wyatt half-smiles. “But we’d really like the team’s blessing.”

NaN nods slowly. “Be careful,” they say, in the most futile gesture in the world. For some reason, it makes Wyatt want to cry.

“I’ll do my best,” she says, and it is not completely a lie.

Sexton and Quitter are full-on shouting, but they go quiet when Wyatt and NaN rejoin the group. Quitter crosses their arms. “Well?”

“I think it needs a name,” NaN says.

Quitter blinks. “Come again?”

“A name. Like a catchy — you know how they called it the Grand Unslam? That was good for marketing.”

“Was it?”

“Sure.”

“NaN,” Dovenpart says, aghast. “You can’t be serious.”

NaN shrugs. “I don’t want it to happen,” they say, and Wyatt has to glance away. They sound tired. “But I don’t want any of this to happen. And if any team decides they want to be the wrench in the works, I want it to be us. So I think we need a name, and a campaign, and a couple more team meetings to hash it out.”

“Ditch Your Pitchers,” Vito says immediately. He spreads his hands out in front of him like he’s looking at a marquee. “Just think about it! Catchy slogan-”

“We’re not ditching anyone,” Quitter snaps. Halexandrey whines, and Quitter pats her head absently. “They’re still on the team.”

“We’re just making the sacrifice so nobody else has to,” Patel says. Quitter glares at them, and they glare straight back. “That includes you.”

“Oh, like I’m supposed to be grateful-”

“I’m not saying that-”

“Quiet down, kids,” Wyatt says loudly, and they both stop to glare at her instead. “We’ll workshop a name later. And we can all hold hands and cry later-”

“Don’t say that like you won’t be crying,” Dovenpart mutters. Wyatt desperately wishes she had something to throw at him.

She forces herself to press forward. “But right now, we just need to be on the same page. I want to ruin the umps’ day, and the gods’ day for that matter. Are we all in agreement?”

“I just don’t get why it’s peanuts,” Vito says. A couple people cut him sharp looks, and he shrugs. “What? I get that you’re all doing this whole very noble sacrifice thing, and it’s real sweet of ya, but I look at the nuts and think, that’s a delicious snack! It’s not even threatening. Doesn’t make me sad.”

Francisca gasps. “Vito!”

“That’s what they call me.”

“You gave us a name?”

“He did?” Wyatt says, bemused.

Francisca beams. “He did.”

  
  


#

  
  


The Snackrifice.

It’s a plan so stupid it might work, and everyone kind of seems to agree on that. Wyatt’s personally a little affronted by that consensus, but whatever, her thought exercise seems to be turning into an anticapitalist revolution. So it’s worth it.

Francisca gets the Dale on board first. It’s a little tearful, because they were her team for years, but they all agree eventually. And then between Beck Whitney and Vito, the Flowers agree. And then Hex talks to the Magic, and Fig talks to the Fridays, and Alejandro calls the Sunbeams, and—

“It’s not going to work,” Sexton says.

Wyatt shakes her head. It’s not faith, exactly; it’s grimmer than that. “It’s going to,” she says. “I just hope that’s… you know, a good thing.”

He shrugs. “Who can say what’s a good thing?”

It’s not reassuring. Wyatt’s still reassured.

  
  


#

  
  


Two thirds of the way through the season, Wyatt is sitting in the bullpen watching Allie pitch when her phone starts ringing.

She answers, because there’s no point in waiting. “You’ve got Pothos.”

“Wyatt, it’s Bright.”

“Hey, what’s-”

“She’s out.”

Wyatt frowns. “Who’s out?”

“Wyatt,” Bright says. He sounds halfway between giddy and stunned. “We’ve got birds right now. And a bunch of them just came and cracked the peanut shell.”

“Oh,” Wyatt says. Everyone else is staring at her. “Oh, my god.”

“I just wanted to call you, because I know you guys are doing the whole peanut plan-”

“Snackrifice.”

“Yeah,” Bright says distractedly. “Yeah, listen, I’ve gotta go-”

“Tell her to call us,” Wyatt blurts out. “Whenever she’s got a minute.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that, but I have to-”

“Bye,” Wyatt says, and hangs up. She takes a deep breath and turns to the rest of the pitchers. Dimly, she’s aware of the inning ending, of Alejandro jogging back over. She waits until Allie’s within earshot, and then she says, “Jessica Telephone just got out of her shell.”

Everyone stares. Finally, Sexton says, “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says, and the game keeps going.

She’s expecting a call from Jessica at any point. It looks like the Pies are playing a long game, one that goes into extra innings, so she tries not to think about it. And then Jessica doesn’t call after the game, and she tries not to think about it. And she goes home and she tries not to think about it, and she wakes up and she tries not to think about it, and she gets to practice—

“We should talk,” Jessica says.

“Yeah,” Patel says, completely unfazed. God, Wyatt hates them sometimes. “C’mon, I know a spot.”

They end up in the nosebleed seats of the stadium, far enough away that it’s hard to see everyone on the field. If Wyatt focuses on the field she can see the team, but not well enough to make out what they’re doing. That’s the downside to unlimited Los Angeli, she figures. Hard to tell what you’re looking at.

Jessica takes her hat off and sighs. She looks exhausted. Wyatt’s never been this close to her before, but she never looked so… well, so defeated. “Bright told me about what you’re all planning.”

Wyatt has a million questions. She forces herself to wait.

Francisca, however, does not. “Are you here to tell us to stop?”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t listen,” Jessica says. She doesn’t smile, even though it has the cadence of a joke. “But I wanted to make sure you understand.”

“We’re going to be in shells,” Wyatt says flatly. “What’s hard to understand?”

Jessica shakes her head. She looks out at the field. Wyatt gets the feeling she’s not really looking at anything.

“At first,” she says, “it was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I was always physically okay. Never got tired, never got hungry. But I was lonely. I tried to talk to people, but there was never any way to tell if they were talking back. Eventually I stopped trying. I screamed and cried and yelled and it never even hurt my throat. I tried to claw my way out and my fingernails didn’t bleed. I didn’t get the luxury of proof that I tried.”

Wyatt glances at the rest of the pitchers. They all share a pensive look, a single beat of reflection. She wonders what they’re thinking.

Jessica breathes out, and they all snap their attention back to her. “And then… it stopped mattering. And that was even worse, somehow.”

“It stopped mattering?” Sexton repeats. “How could it not matter?”

“Because-” she runs her hands through her hair, fingers twisting through the strands, yanking hard. “Nothing outside the shell mattered because I wasn’t going to get out. I was never going to play, to see my team, to see my brother again. It was just me. You know that saying about boiling a frog?”

“No,” Wyatt says, horrified despite herself. “What?”

Patel cuts her a skeptical look. “Really?”

“Yes, really, why are you boiling frogs?”

“It’s a metaphor. If you put a frog in boiling water, it’ll jump out. But if you put it in a pot of water and make it hotter a little bit at a time, it’ll stay, because it doesn’t notice when the water starts boiling.”

Jessica nods. “They threw me in a boiling pot and threw the lid on,” she says. She sounds so, so tired. “And I tried to jump out, but I was stuck, and eventually I got tired of jumping. So instead I stayed. I stopped trying to get out, to talk to people, to listen and hear if people were talking to me. There wasn’t much to do. Wasn’t much point in doing things. I was alone, and the only thing I knew was that I was alone.”

“Jessica, I am sorry,” Alejandro says. The rest of them nod in earnest, but Alejandro reaches past all of them, wrapping a couple tendrils around her ankle. “You should not have been alone. We hope that you understand that you were not alone, even if you could not see us.”

“Thank you,” Jessica says. To Wyatt it sounds rote and automatic, but Alejandro seems satisfied. “I’m not here to talk you all out of anything. I think what you’re doing is incredibly brave. But that doesn’t mean it’s smart.”

Sexton snorts. “Nobody has ever accused the Tacos of being smart,” he says, and Wyatt grins on reflex. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate knowing what we’re getting into. Now we know we should bring books.”

Francisca cuts him a sidelong glance. “Will that work?”

“Do you know that it won’t?”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying, the Shelled One-”

Jessica shudders and gets to her feet. “I have to get back to Philly. Thank you for listening. Goodbye.”

“Jess,” Wyatt says. She’s not sure why she says it, but Jessica turns around and looks at her. Directly at her for the first time. Wyatt swallows. “It would mean a lot if you told people to push the Snackrifice. People would listen to you.”

For the first time, she smiles. “You should check Twitter more often. I’ll see you all around.”

“Oh my god,” Francisca says. Wyatt turns around, and she holds out her phone. “She’s right. She’s already endorsing it.”

“Jess, thank-” Wyatt looks up. Jessica is gone. She lets out a breath. “Okay, everyone, let’s be honest here. Who’s having second thoughts?”

“I do not want to be alone,” Alejandro says. “That is not a sign that I have changed my mind. It is simply something I am afraid of.”

“Me too,” Francisca says. “I wonder if it’ll be different, because-”

Patel snorts. “Because we’re a team?”

“Yes,” Francisca snaps. “Don’t say it like it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Patel says. They reach out for her hand, and she squeezes it. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I just don’t want to get my hopes up here. I think we all need to be ready for the worst case. It took two months of games for one person to get unshelled, and even then that felt like a fluke. This is a long-term commitment, and I think she’s right. We needed to know that.”

“I’ll bring two books,” Sexton says flatly. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“It should,” Wyatt says. Everyone looks at her in alarm, and she holds up her hands like she’s trying to ward them off. “No, listen, I’m on Beyonce’s side here. I’m not backing out, I just think that we need to be ready for the long haul here. This should change the way we think about this, and it should change the way we get ready. But I still want to get ready.”

“Team Snackrifice,” Patel says, smiling wanly. Wyatt would be lying if she said she weren’t a little queasy herself. But she still thinks it’s worth it. “Everyone put your hands in the middle, come on.”

They put a hand in the middle. Wyatt follows suit. Sexton puts in a hoof, and Allie wraps a tendril around, and Francisca covers all their hands with hers. Nobody says anything for a long moment. Wyatt wants to say something zippy, something to break the tension, but she knows she can’t. Right now, what they need is solidarity.

  
  


#

  
  


The night before the idols get finalized, the batters throw them a surprise party. It’s absolutely terrible, because everyone kind of wants to cry, and they’re all pretending that they don’t actually want to cry, and they’re all pretending not to notice that everyone’s pretending. It’s tremendously awkward. Wyatt loves every second of it.

They say their goodbyes the next morning, and the pitchers head to the stadium alone. It was an agreement they reached during one of the many, many shout-y team meetings about the plan: they need to be together, the five of them, but they need to be separated.

And so they sit around the mound in a circle, waiting. Patel’s checking the board every few minutes, but mostly they just sit and talk. They’ve done that a lot lately, but this time feels different. Francisca tells them stories about the Dale. Wyatt talks about her time playing blasketball. Sexton talks about his dimension.

It’s nice. It’s normal. None of them dare to say that this is going to be the last normal moment that they get.

Patel puts their phone down. “I’m done checking. I don’t want to know.”

“How long?” Wyatt asks.

Patel sighs. “Three minutes.”

Everyone sucks in a breath collectively. Patel just shakes their head. “It’s going to be close.”

Sexton frowns. “It’s going to work.”

“Maybe.” Patel reaches a hand out. “I should-”

“Patel,” Wyatt says. “Don’t.”

They pull their hand back. “What are we going to do if it doesn’t?”

“We’ll find out in two minutes,” Wyatt answers dryly. Nobody laughs. On instinct, she reaches her hands out. “Come on, if we’re doing this we’re going to be sappy about it.”

They’re sitting in a circle, so it’s easy for them to join hands. Wyatt has Allie on her left and Patel on her right. None of them look at each other; instead, they all stare at the mound.

Francisca says, “I’m going to find you guys.”

“Jessica said-”

“No, Sexton, listen. I’m going to find you guys. We’re going to have more time than Jessica did, probably. I’m going to find you, and Nagomi, and— Patel, who else?”

“Axel and PolkaDot,” Patel says. They pause. “Maybe York.”

All of them wince in unison. “Hopefully not,” Francisca murmurs. “But I’ll look.”

“Me too,” Patel says, and all of them murmur their agreement. “There’s nobody I’d rather be making stupid choices with.”

“Thanks so much,” Wyatt says dryly, and closes her eyes. Everyone starts laughing.

She can tell when it happens, because the laughter goes silent.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


2.

  
  


The shell’s not uncomfortable, exactly. If Francisca stands up, it seems like there’s enough room. If she lies down, it’s long enough for her. Which, come to think of it, aren’t exactly standard peanut dimensions. Maybe the shell is rolling around. Or maybe she is. Or maybe this is all metaphysical and fake, and in that case she’s not exactly qualified to have an opinion.

Anyways, it’s not a physical problem. Jessica was right: Francisca’s not tired, and she’s not hungry or thirsty. Which is kind of scary too. She’s not actually sure how long she’s been in the shell. It’s hard to keep track when she doesn’t sleep through nights anymore. She doesn’t really know what nights are, or days, or… much anything else.

Francisca doesn’t like the shell. She’s getting used to it, and she knows she’s going to be here for a while, but that’s not the same as liking it.

The thing is, she made a promise. She remembers making it. She made it to the other pitchers. They were holding hands. These people in her memories, she loves them. She loves them so much.

But she can’t remember their faces.

Jessica said - and heaven only knows why she can remember Jessica so clearly and nobody else, but she supposes that’s just the luck of the shell - that all she knew was being alone. Francisca doesn’t think that’s quite right. The problem isn’t the lack of contact, it’s the loss of contact. It’s knowing that she had two teams and she can’t quite recall who they were. It’s knowing that she chose to be a part of something, but not knowing what or why.

When she starts talking to herself, it’s loneliness. At least, she thinks it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s just isolation getting to her. Hard to say. But the first thing she says is, “I wish I had something to eat.”

It’s something to hold onto, actually. “I wish I had a margarita,” she says, or, “I miss feeling a breeze.” It’s a reminder that the world doesn’t begin and end in the peanut shell. These are things she can hope for one day: sunlight, margaritas, laughter, pitching, tacos.

Tacos.

  
  


#

  
  


One day, Francisca says, “I’m going to go to karaoke with Patel one day.” And then she stops and thinks about it and says, “We’ve done that before.”

The shell doesn’t answer. Francisca keeps going, because this feels like the right thread to pull. “We went once, us and- you know, I’m not sure, but I know Patel was there. We were in Miami, and they said they wanted daiquiris, and I knew a little place that does great ones, just perfect. And they did karaoke, and Patel convinced me to get up on stage. I sang Cher for them. I hate Cher. I never told them that I hate Cher.”

She stops and waits expectantly. It feels like there should be another half to this conversation, which isn’t entirely unusual, but this time… this time…

“I made them sing something terrible. I don’t even remember what it was anymore, probably also Cher. And afterwards we sang something schmaltzy together. One of those awful ones that’s only fun if you have a bad time. So we had the worst time. Both of us are decent singers, but we did the worst we’d ever done. And then we had a few daiquiris. All of us sang Billy Joel at the end of the night. And we walked back to the hotel, and Patel said thank you for showing them the daiquiris. And I said-”

“You said I had to show you good margaritas in Los Angeli,” Patel croaks. “Frannie?”

“Remember?” Francisca says. It’s nice that she can imagine their voice so clearly. She missed it. “Maybe one day, one day I can see them again, and I can ask them what the song was. One day-”

“Frannie-”

“They always called me Frannie. I should-”

“It was Endless Love,” Patel says. “I could tell you hadn’t heard it before because you were being really, really loud. You kept making up harmonies.”

“Wait,” Francisca says. “I know Endless Love.”

“No, you don’t.”

“That wasn’t harmony, I know the melody.”

“Frannie, I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” Patel pauses and takes in a shuddering breath, like they’re about to start crying. Or maybe laughing. “But you absolutely do not know the melody. You were singing the melody for Alone.”

“Oh,” Francisca says. Now that she thinks about it, she can tell that it’s right. But she doesn’t know Endless Love. And she didn’t know that she didn’t know Endless Love. And out of all the conversations that she’s thought about having before, this was the clearest one so far.

Carefully she lifts a couple fingers to her face. She’s not surprised to notice that she’s crying. “Patel?” she whispers.

“Frannie,” Patel says. If she listens close enough she can tell that they’re crying too. “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Francisca sobs. “I don’t know, I can’t believe — _Patel?”_

“It’s me, babe, don’t worry, are you okay?”

“I’m in a peanut shell.”

“Well, yeah, you might remember that we did that on purpose.”

She laughs, and it’s hideous, snot bubbling up out of her nose. But Patel laughs too, and that makes it okay. “I can’t believe it worked. I was just trying to tell a story.”

“You have stories about me?”

“I used to have stories about everyone.”

“Me too,” Patel says. “We can… later, we can figure out stories, but right now I kind of just want to talk to you.”

Francisca wipes her cheeks. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Hey.”

“You okay in there?”

“I mean, I’m in a peanut shell,” Patel says, in the most awful impression of Francisca. She throws her head back and laughs so hard it sounds like she’s screaming.

  
  


#

  
  


It’s just them, for a while. And then one day Patel says, “Remember how Alejandro almost hooked up with that Sunbeams pitcher?”

Francisca barks out a laugh. “No she didn’t, what?”

“Swear to god, she did!”

“When’s the last time we played the Sunbeams?”

“Oh, god, don’t make me think about time,” Patel laughs. “I think she was being pretty lowkey about it, but her and that sunflower chick have been texting each other.”

“Really?” Francisca stops to think about it. “You know, she was on her phone a lot at the end of the season.”

“I thought it was sweet,” Patel says. Francisca takes a moment to try to imagine them in their shell, back against one of the walls, legs sprawled out in front of them. She misses them. She wishes she could kick at their feet or something, feel some kind of physical contact. “I mean, think about Allie, right? If anyone deserves to meet someone super sunshiney and cool and be happy about it, I’d pick her.”

“I’d pick her too. Can I tell you a secret?”

“Frannie, I wish you would.”

“Remember how you got that giant edible arrangement after you became a pitcher?”

“Yeah, and I never found out who sent it.” Patel pauses. “Wait, that was her?”

“She sends them to all the reverbed players. She says even though she’s never been reverbed, she thinks it must be confusing. So she wanted to make sure you felt welcome.”

“You have shared my secret,” Alejandro says. “But seeing as that was enough to make the connection, I will forgive you.”

Francisca beams. “Allie,” she whispers. “Hey.”

“I have good news for the both of you.”

“Great news,” Wyatt adds, and Francisca claps a hand over her mouth. She must make a noise, because Wyatt says, “Yeah, that’s right, we figured it out too. Power of stories or whatever, right?”

“Oh my god,” Francisca manages. “Both of you- do you have Sexton?”

“Here,” Sexton says. “They remembered me trying to explain slang from my dimension.”

“And Alejandro remembered me trying to teach her basketball,” Wyatt finishes. “And now you remembered that Alejandro is dating Zack-”

“Not dating,” Alejandro says sadly. “We decided it should wait until I am unshelled, but we will have a conversation afterwards. I miss them.”

“Something to look forward to,” Francisca says, and then stops. “Do you remember looking forward to things?”

Everyone goes quiet for a second. At last, Alejandro says, “I am looking forward to seeing Zack. And I have been looking forward to hearing from you. I am looking forward to trying to establish contact with the other players in shells, once we fully grasp who they are. And I am looking forward to sunlight.”

“Sunlight,” Francisca repeats. She wipes the back of her hand down her cheeks. “God, and here I was looking forward to seeing the Dale’s party yacht on Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Sexton repeats. “What do they do?”

“Fireworks. But it’s a whole big thing, everyone gets to coordinate part of the show. Hahn told me I could still help if I wanted to.” She pauses. “I mean, Hahn’s on the Sunbeams now, but I bet they’d still let me. What about you?”

“I want to go for a run again one day. A long one. I think I’m going to start doing marathons.”

Wyatt snorts. “Marathons and blaseball?”

“You’re one to talk, blasketball.”

“I guess. I’m just looking forward to cooking something again.”

“You don’t cook,” Patel points out.

“I’m going to,” Wyatt answers with determination. “I’m going to learn how to barbecue. It seems like a good staple. Beyonce, what about you?”

There’s no answer. Francisca frowns. “Patel?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know at all?”

“It’s been hard to remember what I used to do. It’s hard to remember what it’s like wanting things.”

“I’m sorry,” Francisca says. It feels like her heart is frozen in her chest. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you, Frannie, don’t blame yourself.”

“We’ll come up with something,” Wyatt says. “Look, we’re all together again. We’re bound to figure out things to look forward to, especially once we get in touch with… with…”

“The other ones,” Sexton finishes. “We’re having trouble remembering names, but we’re working on it. We think one of them starts with an N.”

“Maybe that’s something to look forward to,” Patel murmurs. “Remembering.”

“Remembering,” Francisca repeats. “Yeah. That’s somewhere to start.”

  
  


#

  
  


The nice thing is—

Look, they’re going to get in touch with other people. Francisca doesn’t fully remember details, but she knows someone has been in here for a year already. She wants to help that person. But the thing is, they don’t actually _have_ to do anything. They can spend a few days just crying off and on and talking, and taking care of themselves, and taking care of each other.

And it’s good. They help Francisca remember parts of her old team. They all take a couple days and list every single Tacos player and tell stories, and it doesn’t seem like the Tacos can hear them but they tell the stories anyways. It makes everything outside the shell seem clearer. It reminds them all that there’s something waiting for them, outside the shell.

They test the connections. Telling more stories about each other doesn’t seem to make anything stronger. Sometimes they can communicate privately, but mostly it seems that everyone hears everything. Francisca’s okay with that. She’s spent enough time alone with her thoughts. It’s nice to be alone together.

Jessica said that the worst part was being alone. And Francisca thinks, okay, if that was true, then she must’ve found the secret best part. Because she doesn’t have to be alone anymore. None of them do.

  
  


#

  
  


They’re in the middle of a round of Francisca’s favorite game, “Let’s Dare Each Other To Share Our Weirdest Crushes On Other Players,” when Wyatt suddenly shouts at the top of her lungs, “Jesus Christ, we forgot about PolkaDot!”

“Oh my god,” Francisca says, because this is a huge deal, _remembering._ And then she thinks about it. “Wait, why did you just-”

“Pothos has a crush on Patterson,” Patel sing-songs.

“I am going to crack your shell,” Pothos says. “I just met them a couple times and I think they’re pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool,” Sexton repeats. “You know, like-”

“We are all adults, this is ridiculous-”

“They have an awful lot of hands,” Alejandro says in a monotone, and for some reason that’s what makes Francisca totally lose it. She slumps over in her shell, cackling ballistically, as Wyatt starts cursing loudly and prolifically.

“Patterson could get it,” Patel says thoughtfully. “Between the two of us, you know, we’ve got five eyes and fifteen hands. That’s my idea of a good time.”

“Oh, shut up and keep daydreaming about that Spies batter,” Wyatt says sourly. Patel sighs dreamily, which she seems to ignore. “Does anyone have any good stories about Patterson?”

“They gave me a high five once,” Sexton offers. “Although that was in my universe.”

“You’re going to make Wyatt jealous,” Francisca stage-whispers, which earns her a couple of loud curse words. She grins. “Did you wash your hand afterwards?”

“Francisca, of course I did.”

“I just mean-”

“The Tacos have not played against PolkaDot in several years,” Alejandro says thoughtfully. “I would like to say that I met them at social events, but I cannot remember meeting them personally.”

“Does it need to be personal?” Francisca drums her fingers against the shell. “I never pitched against them, but I remember watching replays of that Crabs game, way back-”

“Season two!” Patel laughs. “God, I couldn’t believe it. Twenty innings felt like forever.”

“Twenty innings?” Sexton repeats skeptically. “You guys already had twenty-inning games in season two?”

“We did when PolkaDot Patterson was pitching.” Wyatt sighs, and Francisca wishes that she and Patel were in the same room so that she could give them a look, because that was a very dreamy, very un-Pothos sigh right there. “You just love to see someone who’s so good at what they do, you know? They didn’t let me be a pitcher when I first signed up, but I always wanted to be one. Watching that game was when I knew for sure I was going to be a pitcher one day.”

“Aw, Wyatt,” Francisca says. “I didn’t know that.”

She laughs. “Yeah, don’t get me wrong, I was pretty bad when I tried out to be a pitcher. But I watched a lot of replays of that Crabs game. I don’t think I’ve ever had a real conversation with them. The most I’ve ever done was stand near them at a party, and introduce myself. Which was before the Wyatt thing so it doesn’t even count. But they have so much _love_ for what they do. The kind of thing that I can feel from a mile away. I think that’s neat.”

“Wow,” PolkaDot Patterson says. Francisca claps a hand over her mouth. Their voice is soft and unsteady, like they haven’t spoken aloud much. But it’s undeniably them. “Wyatt Pothos?”

“Uh,” Wyatt says, slightly strangled. “Hi. Just wondering, how much of that did you hear?”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” PolkaDot says. “That was sweet. And you’re here! Did all five of you make it?”

“Sure did,” Patel says, and the rest of them make affirming noises. “Welcome to the pod, sis. Sorry it took us a while, this place messes with your head.”

“I’ll say,” they mutter. “Have you found anyone else?”

“You’re the first one,” Francisca admits. “We’re having trouble with names.”

“Names,” PolkaDot repeats slowly. “Nagomi. I remember Nagomi. But remembering isn’t enough?”

“We think that it’s not just having an abstract idea of someone,” Sexton explains. “It has to mean something. So far telling stories about one another has worked.”

“I’ll work on remembering.” They pause and take a shuddering breath. “Thank you. For remembering me.”

“We are relieved to have you here,” Alejandro says warmly. “Would you like to play a game with us?”

“New game,” Wyatt says, a little too sharp.

Francisca snorts. She can hear Patel do the same thing, and she suddenly has to bite her cheek to stop herself from tearing up. She misses being able to see people. But maybe this is enough for now.

“I think games are a little much right now,” PolkaDot says apologetically. “But you all can… keep talking. Please.”

“Buddy,” Patel says, “you’re gonna have a harder time getting us to shut up.”

“Good,” PolkaDot says decisively, and this time Francisca doesn’t bother stopping herself from tearing up. She thinks that it’s less sadness and more relief.

  
  


#

  
  


Axel comes first, with a story from PolkaDot about the day they met on the Breath Mints. Francisca’s not paying much attention, because she and Allie are practicing the limits of private conversations, but she makes sure she says hello.

It’s strange just talking to one person, but Alejandro is very patient as they try to figure it out. It’s less speaking and more whispering, which is annoying, but they’re making it work.

“You seem to be handling things well,” Alejandro says. She’s a little louder now than she’s been before. “Are you glad to have Axel among us?”

“I’m happy every time we get closer to linking everyone up.” She sighs. “Allie, I miss seeing you. I miss holding your hand.”

“I miss you too,” Alejandro admits quietly. “It is difficult. I maintain it is worthwhile, giving up our freedom for the safety of others. But that does not make this portion any less difficult.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I admire your grace, Francisca. I think we all do.”

Francisca snorts, half in amusement and half in surprise. “I don’t think anybody’s ever called me graceful before.”

“They should,” Alejandro says. And Francisca can’t argue, because… well, because it’s Alejandro. “We should all be so lucky as to have your compassion.”

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” Francisca laughs. “Let’s get back to everyone else. Didn’t you want to ask Axel something?”

“Ask me something!” Axel says. Francisca has to bite down a sigh; she hadn’t realized they’d swapped back over. They’ll have to keep practicing. “What’s up?”

“Hello, Axel,” Alejandro says, because she is the nicest person in the world. “We are trying to find the last link. I would like to ask if you have any stories about Nagomi Mcdaniel.”

Axel laughs. “Who doesn’t? She’s cool. It’s funny, we kept just missing each other during trades. I went to the Crabs when she left. So we got lunch.” They pause. “Where’d we get lunch?”

Nobody answers. But Francisca strains and listens hard, and she hears, like the quietest whisper: “Fish market.”

“Fish market,” she repeats immediately.

“Right!” Axel says cheerfully. “Neither of us really like fish, so it wasn’t a good choice.”

“I like fish,” Nagomi says. It’s still quiet, but Francisca doesn’t have to strain as much here. “They just had bad catches that day.”

“Did you go to the market a lot?” Francisca asks.

“Oh, almost never,” Axel answers, and they keep answering.

Francisca ignores them. She takes a deep breath and focuses on the bits that she remembers about Nagomi Mcdaniel. “Did you go to the market a lot?”

“Once a week,” Nagomi answers. “I’ve lived a lot of my life on islands. It makes me feel more at home.”

“What was your favorite place there?”

“There was this vendor that sold scallops. They were always massive. I wish I knew how they got them so big.”

“Do you cook fish?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’ll have to teach Wyatt. She’s talking about learning to cook.”

“What?” Wyatt says, but it sounds quiet compared to Nagomi. “Fran, what are you-”

“I can’t,” Nagomi says. She sounds miserable. “We’ll never-”

“We will,” Francisca says. There’s something desperate thrumming through her veins. She had never stopped to consider that maybe Nagomi wouldn’t want to talk to the rest of them. “It might take a while, but — oh my god, you don’t know.”

“Don’t know?”

“Jessica got out.”

“What?” Nagomi says at full volume. Francisca lets out a breath of relief. “How?”

“Birds pecked her free on the field one day. It was random. It could happen to any of us.”

“How many of us are there?”

“Hold on,” Francisca says. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine Nagomi’s voice in front of her, a spiraling burgundy thread. She lifts one hand and closes it around the spiral, and then says, “Nagomi?”

“How many?” she repeats. But this time, everyone else in the group gasps. Nagomi gasps too. “There are so many of you. Who was I talking to?”

“Oh,” Francisca says, embarrassed. “I forgot to introduce myself. Hi, I’m Francisca. I pitch for the Tacos. Most of us actually… pitch for the Tacos. It was kind of a thing.”

“Hi Nagomi!” Axel chirps. “PolkaDot and I are here too.”

“And I’m talking to you,” Nagomi says slowly. “I’m talking to you?”

“We’re all talking to you,” PolkaDot says. “Sorry it took so long.”

“Don’t apologize,” Nagomi says. “Thank you. Thank you all.”

Alejandro says, in a whisper for Francisca alone, “Good job.”

Francisca beams.

  
  


#

  
  


They play a lot of games. They tell a lot of jokes. PolkaDot has a talent for telling jokes that take five minutes to land a punchline, and every single time they all end up groaning. It turns out that Wyatt is fantastic at telling scary stories, and Axel has several movies memorized shot-for-shot.

Time is a little fuzzy, so Francisca doesn’t know how long they’re there. But she’s happy. Somehow, even though it’s not complete or perfect or right, she’s still happy.

And then one day, Sexton says, “What was that?”

“What was what?” Wyatt says.

“That. Don’t you hear that?”

“Sexton, there’s not any noise.”

“It’s so loud, it’s like-” He yelps. “Like something’s trying to break in.”

Francisca’s eyes go wide. “The birds,” she whispers, and everyone goes quiet. “Sexton?”

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “Yeah, I can- oh my god, there’s light.”

“Sexton?”

“I love you all,” he says, and Francisca starts crying as silently as she can manage. “I love you all so much. I’ll come back for you, I promise-”

There’s no exact moment where Francisca realizes that Sexton is gone. Instead, there’s silence, and she realizes slowly that they’re all waiting for him to say something.

“Well,” Wyatt says at last. “Something for all of us to look forward to.”

Everyone murmurs in agreement. Francisca closes her eyes and tries to feel happy for him, and tries to clamp down on how horribly, gut-twistingly jealous she is.

It doesn’t work. But she figures Sexton would understand if he knew.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


3.

  
  


Jessica steps out of a phone booth in Colorado. She doesn’t stop to take stock of her surroundings. Instead she starts moving towards the away team locker room. She knows it well. She knows exactly where she’s going.

Almost nobody looks up when she walks in. The only one who does is NaN, whose eyes go wide. “Uh, guys-”

“In a second,” snaps one of the remaining Wyatts. “We’re-”

“Nonono, guys-”

“Sexton,” Jessica says. A couple of people actually stand bolt upright at her voice. They’re all crowded around one singular spot, but enough of them step away that she can make eye contact with Sexton. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sexton says. “I was going to call you, I just got a little…”

“Caught up,” she finishes dryly. “I figured. Need a minute?”

“No, you came all this way.” A couple people make noises of protest, but Sexton stands up anyways. “We’ll be back in five.”

“Maybe ten,” Jessica allows. The same Wyatt cuts her a dirty look, and she glares back just as hard. “Shell talk.”

“Be careful,” NaN says worriedly. Jessica always liked NaN. They’re sweet.

Together, she and Sexton walk out on the field. “How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” Sexton admits, like it’s some great confession. Jessica understands. There is something incredibly disorienting about… well, all of it, but she remembers being upset by the wind blowing. She’d forgotten what it was like to be in air that was anything other than still.

She nods. “Overwhelmed by the team?”

“No.”

“Really.”

“We actually…” Sexton takes a deep breath. “We could talk.”

Jessica stops walking. “What?”

“We figured out how to contact each other from inside the shells.”

She shakes her head on instinct. “That’s not possible. I would’ve-”

“Maybe it’s different because the five of us knew each other,” Sexton says. She’s not sure if he’s saying it because he believes it or because she looks that rattled by the revelation. Honestly, she doesn’t think she wants to know if he just pities her reaction. “But we could talk.”

“Just the five of you?”

“We got in touch with the others. It was harder, because we don’t know them as well, but…”

“Jesus,” Jessica murmurs. “Nagomi, is she-”

“Handling it as well as she can. It’s been a long year and a half. She was happy to hear from us.” He pauses. “She actually… she said congratulations on getting out.”

Jessica doesn’t cry, because she doesn’t know Sexton Wheerer, and that means that Sexton Wheerer doesn’t get to see her cry. But she swallows hard. “How are you holding up?” she asks. Her voice sounds too harsh to her own ears.

Sexton sighs. “Guilty, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It’s not, but at the same time it is. She nods. “You know they’ll be fine.”

“I do. I was fine. It helps knowing that they’re not alone. But…” Sexton looks out at the pitcher’s mound. “I don’t know. It was always supposed to be the five of us. And even though I know they’re not alone, even though it was out of my control, even though I would be happy if it were any one of them, it feels like I broke a promise.”

“You didn’t,” Jessica says. “You’re going to hear that a lot across the next few days, and I understand if it doesn’t mean much coming from me. But none of this was ever in your control.”

He slants her a sidelong look. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Then no. It didn’t make me feel better either.”

“Then why did you say it?”

Jessica shrugs. “I don’t have any idea what will help you. I figure there’s no harm in trying something new. If you need to talk about it, call me.”

“I will,” Sexton says, which is how she knows he won’t. That’s fine. She won’t be calling him either. “Thank you.”

She nods and leaves him on the field alone. She’s back in Philly within minutes, back home not long after. She gets to bed and sits down and does not cry.

God, she wishes she could cry over Nagomi.

  
  


#

  
  


Jessica thinks that she’s gotten better lately.

Which — better is relative, right? The only person she really spoke to for the first few days after she got out of the shell was Sebastian, and now Sebastian’s gone. So that was hard. But she has hurt before. She has grieved. She has grieved quite a few people.

So it’s getting better, because even though she feels a little empty, she’s started trying to go through the motions again. Sometimes, when people invite her out to bars, she says yes. Sometimes, she asks to go out. Sometimes, she calls people — not in a haunting patented Telephone manner, but to talk. It’s getting better. She doesn’t feel so much like a ghost.

It’s still not the same as it was before. She’s starting to suspect that it will never be the same as it was before. The kind of isolation that she experienced is the kind of thing that cleaves a life into “before” and “after,” made all the harder by the fact that she wasn’t sure she’d ever make it to after.

Sexton actually does call, once or twice. He says, “It’s easier talking to people who I can’t see.” Jessica doesn’t understand, but she lets him talk to her anyways. They’re not friends, and she’s not interested in being friends with him, but they still talk. Or mostly, he talks. It’s all the same.

So, yes, Jessica thinks that she’s gotten better lately. She thinks a part of her is lost, but on good days she thinks it’s only atrophied. The kind of thing that she can force herself to exercise until it’s strong again.

She doesn’t have much hope. But she has enough.

  
  


#

  
  


On the morning of the last day of the season, Sexton calls her and says, “I need to tell you how to find other people.”

“I’m not going to need to know,” Jessica says, with more calm than she feels. She has been shaking since she woke up - since last night, really - as she watched herself climb back up the idolboard. She’s not going to have enough time to drop back down. It’s going to happen again. She can’t let it happen again. “You need to call York Silk.”

“I just got off the phone with his mother,” Sexton says, which surprises her more than it should. “She’s going to figure out how to talk to him about it. But you need to-”

“No, I don’t-”

“They aren’t going to be able to find you,” he says bluntly. Jessica picks up a random picture frame in her apartment and shatters it against the wall. He either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. “If you get in there, they will not know that they should be looking for you. They aren’t going to arbitrarily find you. You need to know how to find other people, and I’m not letting you go in without that.”

“You’re not letting-”

“I have nightmares about it too.”

“You don’t get to hear about my nightmares.”

“About choking.”

Jessica pauses. She had never mentioned that, but she does have nightmares about peanuts being forced down her throat. About crying and screaming and how that only opens her mouth wider, how she can’t move away.

“I think it’s the allergies,” Sexton continues. “I think you and I are… well, for lack of a better word, I think we’re damaged in a way that neither of us knows how to deal with. You need to know how to avoid it getting any worse.”

She swallows. “I have to go to practice,” she says, which is a transparent lie, but thankfully Sexton doesn’t call her on it. “But if you can-”

“Leave a voicemail,” he finishes. “Yeah. Go do what you need to do. It’ll be waiting for you afterwards.”

“Okay,” Jessica says, and hangs up without saying thank you. She sits down on her bed and picks up the picture frame. It’s her and a couple of the Tigers players, making faces at the camera. Jessica should call the Tigers. She should call a lot of people.

She gets dressed for the day and leaves and does not look at her voicemail.

  
  


#

  
  


She doesn’t get off the idol board in time. She knows she’s not going to.

So instead she goes to Hawai’i. She doesn’t bother calling in advance, just steps out of a pay phone and says, “Mrs. Silk?”

They have an hour before the election. Mrs. Silk turns and doesn’t even bother trying to hide her tears. “Thank you,” she says, and Jessica is afraid to ask what exactly she thinks Jess is there for. “Come say hi to him.”

She’s met York a handful of times; it would be hard not to, given that they’re both top-tier batters. He looks like a mess, curled up in a ball in one of the seats in the stands.

Jess sits next to him. “Hey,” she says, and kind of wants to kick herself. She’s not so great at the empathy these days but this is a child. She should be able to work through that. “Can I sit with you?”

“Is the shell scary?” York says.

Jessica lets out a breath. “I was scared,” she says in a measured voice. She can tell it’s the wrong thing, because he curls up a little tighter. “But I talked to Sexton, and he told me how to talk to the other people in shells. I didn’t have that. I think it’ll be less scary.”

York traces a shape with his finger on his knee. Jessica squints and is able to recognize, just barely, the outline of a peanut. “I haven’t talked to Gomi in a while. I wrote her a bunch of postcards, but my mom’s keeping them, just in case she gets out before I do. Do you think she’ll be okay if I tell her the stories before she gets to read them?”

“I bet she’d like that,” Jessica says, and then pauses. She turns to Mrs. Silk, standing at a distance watching them, and says, “Can you find us a Sharpie?”

Mrs. Silk nods and leaves. York looks at Jessica curiously. “Are you scared?”

“It’s hard to say,” she hedges. “It’s different for me. I wasn’t allergic before, and now I’m superallergic. We don’t know what that means yet. But even if I’m scared, I have an idea to make it a little less scary.”

“Mr. Wheerer called me too,” York says. Jessica smiles, not at what he’s saying but at the idea of Sexton being Mr. Wheerer. The two of them aren’t on formal terms. She wonders how Sexton would react. “He said it was hard to remember stories, but we have to tell stories.”

“That’s why I want the Sharpie.” She looks up as Mrs. Silk comes down the stairs of the stands and hands over a Sharpie. “Alright, kiddo, pick an arm. And you’re gonna tell me a good story about Nagomi.”

York looks up at her, wide-eyed, and then holds out his left arm. “One time we went to a petting zoo,” he says. “I really wanted to feed the llamas but there were out of llama food, and-” he cuts himself off and looks at his mother.

Jessica arches an eyebrow at Mrs. Silk. “Would you mind covering your ears for a moment?” she asks, trying desperately not to laugh at this child. “It’s important.”

Mrs. Silk makes a show of putting her hands over her ears. York says, “Gomi gave a guy twenty dollars to start yelling and screaming and then she carried me into the pen and put me on a llama and I got to sit on it for a few minutes.”

Jessica barks out a laugh before she can help it. She hopes York doesn’t mind; it’s just that she hasn’t had a good laugh in a year. “Was it fun?”

“Yeah!” He beams. “It didn’t move around, so it wasn’t a real ride or anything, but it was still really cool, and it was nice of her to do. I miss her a lot.”

She swallows. “Me too,” she says, and starts writing. Her handwriting isn’t exactly neat, but she keeps it legible as she writes on his arm. Llamas. Almost ride. Petting zoo. Nagomi Mcdaniel. She makes sure to circle that last one, very carefully.

York tugs on his mom’s skirt. “You can listen again,” he says, and then turns to Jessica. “What do you want me to write on you?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What if you don’t remember?”

Jessica pauses a moment. She can feel Mrs. Silk’s eyes on her. She knows that it would be wrong to explain that she thinks she might die inside the shell. She knows that she can’t tell this kid that she, the only person who he knows will be there with her, might not really be there.

She holds out her arm. “Gimme your autograph,” she says. “I can find you.”

York nods and takes the Sharpie. His autograph turns out to be very basic cursive, grade-school level, that she can barely read. “Good?”

“Perfect,” she says. “Let’s talk about other things while we wait. Maybe your mom has good stories we can tell to pass the time.”

Mrs. Silk smiles and sits down on York’s other side. She settles one arm around his shoulders, and her hand lands on Jessica’s bicep and squeezes. “I have plenty of stories,” she says. And it is not comforting, but Jessica tries to let herself be comforted anyways.

  
  


#

  
  


She recognizes the smell first and takes a second to retch. She hadn’t realized that there was a smell, but she knows it now that she’s here. It’s stagnant and it seems rotten, even though it’s almost certainly just regular peanut scent.

As soon as she’s done, she takes a deep breath. As soon as Sexton explained what needed to be done, she wrote this out and memorized it. She can say this in her sleep. If this is her lifeline to another person, she needs to know it.

Carefully she says, “I met Patel Beyonce at a party. We spent a lot of time talking about crossword puzzles. Neither of us like crossword puzzles, but someone else there did. So we made a lot of jokes about them. We did a league-wide secret gift exchange later. I sent them a crossword puzzle mug. I don’t think I ever sent the note saying it was me.”

“Oh god,” Patel says. “Oh, no, no, Jessica?”

She closes her eyes. It worked. It _worked._ “Yeah,” she says. “I’m back.”

“Jess,” Nagomi says sadly. “I’m-”

“Nagomi,” Jess says. There’s a rock in her throat. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, we did everything we could.”

“You can’t control the birds.”

“Not that,” she says, and lifts up her arm. In the gloom she can just barely make out the signature there, still dark and crisp. She wonders if it’ll be there forever. They could wait for him to make the connection on his own, but he’s just a kid, and some things need to be the adult’s responsibility. “York Silk gave me his autograph before we came into the shell. He told me a story about llamas. I might have promised that Francisca is going to help him paint his nails after we’re out of the shells.”

“I will,” Francisca says immediately. Jessica doesn’t know the Tacos pitchers well, has no idea if Francisca can actually paint nails, but she figured this would help. “Any color you want.”

There’s a breathless moment, and then York says timidly, “Green?”

“Yeah, kiddo. You want shiny green or matte?”

“I don’t know what matte is.”

“It’s like paper, it’s not glossy at all.”

“What about sparkly?”

“Yeah, we can do sparkly.”

“York?” Nagomi says. It sounds… small. Nagomi Mcdaniel is not a small person, and Jessica’s stomach clenches at her voice. “Oh, baby, no.”

“Hi, Gomi.” York sniffles loudly. “I’m okay. My mom gave me a note to read to you, but she says it’s just for us, and I don’t know how to do that yet, so I’m gonna wait till later. Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, baby,” Nagomi says, and it has the cadence of a lie, but not a single person would ever say that. Not even Jessica. “I’m doing just fine. We’ve got a lot of friends in here.”

“Okay,” York says. “Can I meet everyone?”

There’s a sudden rush of noise as, presumably, everyone tries to introduce themselves at once. Even Jessica startles at it. She’s not used to there being noise in here. She remembers it only being her. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Jessica,” Nagomi says, and she startles. “It’s just us. Nobody can hear you. Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Me neither. Thank you for looking out for him.”

“He’s a kid. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“None of us deserve this.”

“Maybe,” Jessica allows. “But him less than anyone.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Do you need a minute? I can have everyone leave you alone for a while.”

“No,” Jessica says. She’s not sure why. She doesn’t want to be surrounded by these loud strangers. But, she thinks, she wants to be alone even less. “You don’t have to.”

“Okay,” Nagomi says, and it’s like the conversational floodgates open. PolkaDot is talking to one of the pitchers, and Axel is asking York about cars, and it’s loud. It’s overwhelming. It’s not something she’s used to.

But, Jessica figures, at least she isn’t alone this time.

**Author's Note:**

> what do you call someone who can psychically communicate while trapped in a peanut?
> 
> a SHELL-epath
> 
> (come say hi @waveridden on tumblr/twitter!)


End file.
